Memory Loss
by C. Song
Summary: A small explosion, in Sherlock's standards, has hit John on the head. He's experiencing some memory loss... Rated T for small bits of language, rating may go up from lightly suggested themes later in the story. (Redone. I know some of you read my original one, but this one has new longer chapters.)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or John, or any of the other characters. That belongs to the BBC network channel, Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do, however, want to say quickly that I'm not alone in writing this. A good friend of mine, Katja, helped me write it. In fact, without her starting the prompt of 'what would happen if John lost his memory,' this never would've happened. It was a duel effort, and I wanted to make sure she knows she's getting just as much credit for it. Thank you, Katja~.  
Oh, and, in case you're wondering as you read.. I'm making the chapters kinda short, because I never know how long I have on the computer I'm using. I do apologize, but each story bit does connect to the next chapter.

It was one explosion. Not even a big on, by the normal standards of Sherlock, but it managed to hit John on the head, knocking him out. He woke up much later in the hospital, blinking and groaning, only to find a strange man sitting by his beside. Sherlock leaned over and forced a smile, not having slept until he was certain John was awake. "John. Wake up and answer my question."

John merely blinked, looking up at Sherlock in a confused manner. "Who're you exactly? And where am I?" He glanced around, squinting at all the white. "Why am I in a hospital? Did something happen while I was on patrol?" He looked to Sherlock, waiting for answers to his quickly asked questions.

Sherlock stared at him, leaning back. "John…" He swallowed, shaking his head. "Memory loss. Of course. What do you remember? Name, general history up until now?" He was trying to look collected, clenching his fists out of sight.

John sat up slightly, running a hand through his hair. "All I can remember is being out on patrol in-" He stopped, looking at Sherlock. "How do you know me? I don't remember you at all." He looked a little suspicious, not entirely sure he knew Sherlock, but not distrusting, because something was nagging at him, he just couldn't place it; it gave him a migraine to try and place anything. He snorted mentally. 'Of course,' he thought. 'The fellow did say memory loss... But I feel fine. Nothing unusual... Just him.'

Sherlock sighed. "We live together. We're flatmates. You left the army nearly two years ago, but do try not to panic. The John I know would never sink to panic, but, well, these are rather extraordinary circumstances..." He swallowed. "It's understandable that you don't recall me, I am rather new, relatively. I'm... I'm Sherlock Holmes. You're best friend." He paused, searching for any sort of memory, before sighing. "I'll just... fetch a nurse."

John looked rather astonished. 'I... Left the army? Two years ago? How.. Sherlock Holmes? Flatmates? Why I've never heard such rubbish,' was John's first thought, but seeing the searching look and hearing the sighs, he paused his thinking. 'Maybe.. He's being serious. he sure as hell looks it,' he thought idly before responding to Sherlock. "Yes... I think that'd be best for now..." He looked at Sherlock's face once more, having looked around the room again, trying to recall anything the man had just told him. Nothing came to mind, much to his disappointment.

Sherlock sighed and got up, bringing in the doctor moments later. "Dr. Watson," the man greeted him, as Sherlock stayed in the background, vigilant. "How are you? Your flatmate said that there was some sort of amnesia?"

John nodded. "That seems to be the case, yes." He noted quietly that Sherlock stood off to the side, staying to the shadows as though he were trying to watch and remain hidden. "Though, had he not told me, I wouldn't have been any the wiser. I still don't recognize him or remember anything about us being flatmates. Last thing I recall is going on patrol. But he said I left the army near two years ago." John's expression went from relaxed to tensed and puzzled as he talked, looking to the doctor for some sort of answer.

The doctor nodded, looking over John's chart and sighing. "Tell me, do you remember being assigned to a patrol going to flush out some insurgents in the lower caves south of your base?" he asked, glancing up. "I'm trying to determine when your memory blanks, you understand. That mission took place shortly before...Well, shortly before you left the military."

John nodded. "Yes, that's it. I can't remember anything after reaching the caves. When I woke up here, I assumed there had been a collapse of the cave, and that we made it out and stayed the night just to ensure that we were stable."

The doctor sighed and nodded. "No. Your team completed the mission, but you were injured. Shot in the shoulder. They invalided you home. That was two years ago." He made a note on his clipboard. "It appears your mind tried to erase all trauma, starting with the earliest. That explains the blank."

John looked up, surprised. "You've got to be joking," was all he could say. He was shot? And sent home? That explained having a flatmate.. But that didn't help him at all. He still couldn't remember a thing. "Will.. I get my memory back? At all?"

"Hopefully you will, but brain injuries are tricky," the doctor explained, sighing. "You might remember some, or all, or none. It's a lot of chance involved, I'm afraid."

John's face fell. "Right.. I expected as much.."

"Well, we'll need to do some scans and then you should be able to go," the doctor said, looking to Sherlock. "I take it he'll be going home with you, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock seemed to fidget in his spot. "Well," he started. "If he wants to, yes. I understand if he wants to stay elsewhere."

John shook his head. "No, I'd like to see where we lived. Maybe it'll trigger something."

"Right.. I'll just.. Wait." And with that Sherlock turned, fleeing the room. The doctor sighed at his fleeing figure. "He hasn't slept a wink since you've been brought in. I'm surprised he hasn't collapsed from exhaustion yet." He shook his head. "Do you need a wheelchair, or can you walk?" He asked, looking to John.

John looked a little surprised. "He hasn't slept?" That didn't seem surprising once he said it. He didn't know why, but something told him the man that fled the room, 'Sherlock,' he reminded himself, didn't sleep often anyways. Or eat often, if the lean, near bony yet somehow still healthy, body structure was anything to go by. He couldn't fathom why he wouldn't sleep, or why he sat there, or so the doctor said. John shook his head a little, remembering the doctor's question. "No, I don't need a wheelchair. I'll be fine." And with that small statement, followed the doctor out the room, wanting to get the scans done and over with.

"No, he hasn't. Your other friends tell me that that isn't very unusual with him, I'm afraid, although the nearly stifling concern certainly is. He insisted upon seeing every single graph, which I unfortunately had to do, since you named him your next of kin a year or so ago. Apparently you had no family that you could rely on. Anyway," the doctor shrugged and led the way to the scanning room, helping John get situated. "You know the drill. Stay still and stay quiet and this should be done soon." He walked into the monitoring room and jumped. "Mr. Holmes!"

"I wanted to see the scans come up."


	2. Chapter 2

Recap:

"I wanted to see the scans come up."

Now:

John jumped at Sherlock's voice. Him again? Then again, the doctor did mention that he was listed as next of kin... 'That's understandable,' he thought sourly. 'And the fellow,' Sherlock he reminded himself, 'did say he was my best friend... That's debatable, but it would hopefully link up with the concern... Concern that others say is so not normal... Huh. Maybe we were more than best friends? Like brothers? That'd be reason for concern... Right? Hidden concern at least...' He slowly blocked Sherlock and the doctor out, getting lost in his volley of thoughts.

Sherlock watched the scans fervently, a small indent appearing on his brow as they all came back normal, if slightly concussed. "I...I don't understand." The doctor sighed and set a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, getting shrugged off. "Let's let see these as well, hm?" He went out and got the ex-soldier, leading him inside. "Here are your scans. Completely normal, as you can see."

John reviewed the scans, a small indent of a frown appearing on his brow. "...Well. At least nothing's damaged."

Sherlock started pacing. "But that doesn't explain your memory loss! You should remember everything by these scans, and you **don't!**" The doctor took a step towards the pacing man, only to stumble back at the death glare directed at him.

John reached up, steadying the doctor, casting his own death glare toward Sherlock. "That was completely unnecessary! Where the hell are your manners?!"

Sherlock visibly flinched back, face paling a shad at John's harsh looked at the doctor. "My...apologies," he murmured slowly, looking down. "Excuse me, I need to make a call." Without looking at John, he darted out of the room, pulling out his phone.

John wrinkled his nose a little. 'How do I put up with that? Do I put up with that?' He thought, jerking a hand through his hair in an exasperated motion. "...Is there a chance I can leave now? I kinda want to make arrangements," he murmured, looking to the doctor for conformation.

The doctor nodded, but hesitated. "Don't be too hard on him. . From what I understand, you are his only friend, more like a brother really, and he blames himself for your...damage. I believe this is him simultaneously grieving, blaming himself, and trying to fix this."

John nodded slightly. "Sure. Thank you, by the way." John walked out the room and around Sherlock, who was standing outside the room, making his way down the hall. Reaching the waiting room area, he signed himself out, waiting by the door for Sherlock, wanting to make sure he goes to the right place. '221 Baker Street... Huh. Dunno where that came from. Might as well make sure, though, right?' He hummed at the thought, walking on out the hospital. Once outside, he hailed a cab, heading for the address that came to mind.

Sherlock finished his call with Mycroft, trying not to think about how easily John had just walked past him, barely glancing, and he was still smarting from the remonstrance of earlier. He wandered out to find a cab going away and he sighed, hailing a cab and instructing it to follow John's, thrilled when both pulled up at Baker Street. "You remembered," he said quietly, happily.

John, who had gotten out of his cab, strolled over to Sherlock just in time to hear his comment. "I'm not sure what I remembered," he started. "But this address popped up. I'm going to guess by your tone it's a good thing?" It was more of a question than the statement it was supposed to be, but he hoped he'd get an answer anyways.

"It's where we live," Sherlock said, smiling quietly. "I'm glad it came to mind. That's a...good sign, yes?" he asked, uncertain how to act around this New John. The John who didn't know him.

John nodded. "Yes, I'd call that a bit of progress." He looked around for a moment, then checked his pockets. Nope. No key. Looking to Sherlock, he murmured, "Per chance, do you have your key on you?"

Sherlock grimaced and patted his pockets, grinning. "Ah, yes. Thank goodness, you are normally...well." He cleared his throat and unlocked the door. "Welcome home."

John stepped into the flat, looking around, strolling through to the kitchen, he paused, critically looking over everything, and looking to the table, twitched. "..Sherlock," he started in an eerily calm tone. "Why are there **toes on the table**?" His voice raised slightly, though remained calm.

"Ah, yes, I...experiment, I'll just clean that up," Sherlock mumbled moving the toes carefully. "Sorry, it's been a busy time, I didn't think...I forgot that you wouldn't remember the experiments." He chuckled sadly. "You didn't like them on the table, anyway."

"I'd hope not. I'd hope we eat on that table," he remarked with a slight frown. Was this really who he lived with? Truly? Was there a mix up, because this didn't seem right. 'I remember the address, but I don't remember anything about him... That's not normal.'

"I sanitize it before you eat," Sherlock mumbled, despairing more and more of ever getting _his_ John back. He grabbed the disinfectant and cleaned the table thoroughly, not making eye contact. "Um...Mycroft, my brother, has set up some treatments for you, if you wish. To jog your memory."

John seemed to brighten up a bit. "That'd be wonderful. Thank you."

Sherlock sent him a hesitant smile. "Good. You'll receive the very best care, of that I'm certain, even if I owe him a case for this."

John twitched a little, putting his hand to his temple. "Nn. Of course. Thank you, again, for doing that." He growled a little mentally, rubbing his temple to relieve a minor pain.

Sherlock frowned. "Are you alright? Should you sit down? Perhaps some painkillers?" he offered, fidgeting.

John noticed the fidgeting and shook his head. "No, just a little nuisance, I'll be fine." A memory came flooding back, to which John accidently growled aloud to. 'Mycroft? Why are we accepting help from Mycroft? We never do that. Ever.'

Sherlock fought to keep from jumping in joy as John appeared to remember something, but couldn't stop a wide grin. "Quite right, we usually don't, but he is the best resource at the moment. "

"Do we have any other options? I mean, I want my memory back as much as... Well, as much as you seem to, but I don't want to be in debt to _Mycroft_," John nearly spat the name.

"Do you know anyone else who works in the government that can ensure you'd get the best care without paying any major bills?" At John's blank look, Sherlock swallowed. "Right... Sorry."

"You've apologized at least thrice to me today. According to others, it isn't normal. You don't have to keep apologizing if you're not used to it," John said with a smile. "Really. It's not your fault I can't remember anything; stay in your comfort zone. Besides, you don't seem to be the worrying type."

Sherlock smiled apologetically, but refrained from saying sorry again. "You never let me stay in my comfort zone," Sherlock mused, sitting back. "You're always dragging me out to meet with _people_." He shuddered. "And I always worry about you. You're important."


	3. Chapter 3

Recap:

Sherlock smiled apologetically, but refrained from saying sorry again. "You never let me stay in my comfort zone," Sherlock mused, sitting back. "You're always dragging me out to meet with _people_." He shuddered. "And I always worry about you. You're important."

Now:

John couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "People? Really? It won't hurt you to meet people." He chuckled again, thinking 'So, it is like I thought. I don't know if that's good or not, but it's something.'

"People are rude, course, and hurtful," Sherlock snapped, letting go of his rigid control for just a moment. He swallowed and collected himself. "I don't like meeting them, but I do it for you."

"Why for me? What makes me so special?" John asked, drawing for Sherlock's previous statement.

Sherlock shrugged, looking down. "You just...are. You're John."

"..." John shook his head, confused with Sherlock's cryptic answer. "If you say so."

Sherlock bit his lip. "I'm not good with emotions. I'm sure other people would have some great reasoning, but..." He swallowed.

John offered a smile. "Don't worry about explaining anything. It's obvious you don't do well with your emotions." John moved over to the stove, putting on a spot of tea. "Would you like a cuppa tea?" He asked without looking at Sherlock.

"Yes please," Sherlock said brightly, loving John's tea.

John chuckled at the 360° mood swing. A few minutes later, John had the tea set out on the table with jammie dodgers to go with it.

Sherlock took the tea and sipped it, smiling. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." John paused. "If I left the army two years ago, what have I been doing?"

"Working with me. You assist me on cases, and you sometimes work down at the surgery," Sherlock explained.

"Oh, really?" John perked up a bit, taking a bite out of a jammie, making a motion for Sherlock to continue.

"Um...you're remarkably patient with me. I abandoned you on our first case, and you still came halfway across London to send a text message for me," Sherlock remarked nostalgically.

John snorted a little. Sounded just like something he'd do. 'He must've done something to gain that much respect.' Was an absent thought of John's as he finished up his jammie.

Sherlock smiled, ignoring the cookies in favor of tea. "You'd always try to trick me into eating, and sometimes I'd let you."

John raised an eyebrow. "Let me? Oh sure you would. Just like you'd let me talk you into sleeping more often, right?" He gave a small, teasing smile.

Sherlock sniffed. "I don't need sleep or food, but you always made such a bit deal out of it. I figured..." He trailed off with a mutter.

"You do need them. Both of them. What the hell do you do? Wait until you pass out from the lack of everything?" John's tone was slightly irate, but quiet.

Sherlock fidgeted. "Well... Sort of, yes."

John set down his cup. "Sherlock Holmes," he started, casting a concerned and annoyed gaze at Sherlock. "You can't do that. Do you know how unhealthy that is? You'll kill yourself if you keep that up."

"Yes, so you always said. Personally, I think there are many other things that will kill me first," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

John let his head drop, a quiet thud coming from the table. "I know what's going to kill me," he muttered quietly to himself.

Sherlock chuckled quietly, hesitantly reaching out to rub John's back. "It's not so bad."  
"Yes. Yes it is. You're going to drive me mad with worry." He let Sherlock rub his back, the action slightly familiar.

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm sure you'll handle it."

John grunted. "The fact you guess that makes me wonder what the hell I've put up with for two years."

Sherlock flushed. "You didn't seem to mind."

John looked up and, seeing the flush on Sherlock's face, laughed good naturedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your sense of humor is unchanged, I see."

John sat back, a look of concentration passing over his face. "I remember the day I met you. The day we agreed to be flat mates." A wistful smile crossed his face. "Your whole 'I do various experiments, I don't sleep so I'll be making a lot of noise, oh and did I mention that I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for hours on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.' And yet, I still accepted. I do remember that first case, you bloody twit, and I'm still not okay with it."

Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement. "Which part are you not okay with?" he asked, smirking. "The drugs bust, the pill thing, or having to shoot a man for me?"

John held up a hand, ticking off fingers as he went. "Let's see..Oh. The pill thing, being left out the loop, having to look for your sorry bum only to find you _halfway across London_, oh! And then the smirk you gave me like 'I knew you'd show up eventually.' The same smirk you're giving me now." A wry smile passed over his lips. "Stop being right, you prat."

Sherlock laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm just...thrilled that you remember. Is it just our first case, or something more?" he asked, eagerly, bouncing up like a little kid and grinning.

John grimaced suddenly, before his eyes widened. "YOU TORCHED OUR FLAT?!" His voice held more disbelief than anger at the moment, but the irritation was slowly leaking into his facial expression.

"Oh, um, yes, you _would_ remember that," Sherlock muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry. It was an accident. Some chemicals mixed that really shouldn't have..."

"You. Blew. Up. The. Flat." John's gaze sharpened. "All the books- And our stuff, Sherlock! All our stuff!"

Sherlock's form shrank like a scolded child. "I'm sorry, John."

John sighed, reaching forward, patting Sherlock's head. "It's fine. Nothing to be done about it now. No more experiments in the flat."


End file.
